A Wolf's Tale
by NoNameNo
Summary: The story of the Inquisition from Solas POV.


**Chapter 1**

It kept replaying in his head.  
Over and over again he witnessed the Blast that he had thought would finally put an end to this. Return his powers to him. Enable him to restore what was lost. But instead he remained but a weak imitation of himself, a fragment of what he once was.  
Just like anything else in this tranquil world he had created in his foolish recklessness.  
And now even it could come to an end and again, he was the one to blame.  
It was never supposed to happen like this.  
He had thought this through, carefully set the wheels in motion, planned and always kept a watchful eye. Dealt with betrayal accordingly, however painful it had been.  
All that was left was for Corypheus to die in the blast, unlocking the power of the orb.  
He thought it impossible he survived, but something had clearly gone wrong. Something he did not accord for.  
Another fatal mistake, another regret to tear him apart, another world ruined along with seemingly all hope of retribution. Would he never learn? Had he now unintentionally set the events in motion that would cause the end of literally everything?  
Solas had thought that he had felt all loss and remorse had to offer. But however deep they had cut him before, torn, eaten away at him, haunted his mind, it couldn't compare to what he felt now.  
The devastation, the complete and utter despair of defeat.  
It could all have been over. He could be physically in the Fade at this very moment, rebuilding what he had caused to fall while these lands burned in the raw chaos. But instead he now ran the risk of burning with it, trapped and doomed with the rest of them.  
Restricted by their laws and silly superstitions. Unable to even search for the orb, if it even still remained functional. _No._  
He couldn't afford to think like that. This was not over. He would not believe it destroyed until he saw the shattered remains with his own eyes.  
He could still achieve his goals through this plan. No need to resort to drastic alternatives.  
He had but to be patient and careful, put aside his pride for this plan to have any chance of success. Play by the rules of the imitations for a while, however faulted they might be. But first he needed to gather more information.

He had done many reckless and foolish things in the many years he had lived. But most of them had to be observed in painful hindsight for him to come to that realization. Not this time. Surrendering himself to the mercy of the Templars, the justice of the humans in this state was an incredibly ill-advised risk. And yet what choice did he have?  
Someone had survived the Blast. It had started as a whisper, a rumor but the murmurs of the villagers had persisted and grown in details. The survivor was supposedly a Dalish elf, of all people, who had attended the conclave for reasons not yet known and was being kept in a nearby camp. While curious, he would not have risked a visit where it not for one detail. The claims that she had walked out of the Fade, left hand engulfed in blazing, green light.  
Could a part of the orbs power, his power somehow be trapped inside her? Could she possibly bare the anchor? The irony of it did not escape him. Did a Dalish, that had spent their live clinging to legends misheard and misinterpreted a thousand times, come to acquire the mark?  
It seemed unlikely, near impossible but if true… she could hold the key to closing the Breach.  
She could hold the key to his salvation.  
That was if she would live long enough. Her frail body could not hope to survive the massive flow of power now cursing through her for long. Such a force was never meant for a mortal, especially not one all but cut off from the Fade. Which meant that ultimately, none but Solas could bear the mark and live. But there was no need for her to grow to a ripe age and he might still have some hope of keeping her alive for a time. It was his power after all and perhaps he would still be able to exert some sort of control over it. And being adept at healing magic, he could also assist her recovery with wards and spells that had been lost in time to anyone but him. He might even be able to keep her relatively stable, if he made haste. Time was of the essence.  
He had no doubt that every moment without aid would bring her closer to death.  
When Solas reached the camp, he was met with immediate resistance.  
Chantry forces instantly drew their swords, eying him with suspicion and disdain through their visors, stares darting first to the staff he had bound to his backpack and then his ears.  
Of course neither sight was to their liking, some soldiers tightening the grip on their weapon.  
He thought it pathetic that they showed such a manner of fear, they were clearly outnumbering him and what little remained of his powers seemed laughable.  
Still, he had expected as much. Being a mage alone seemed a crime worthy of lockup in this world, superstition and fear preventing actual thought and true understanding.  
And appearing to be one of the elves of this age meant they would likely think him either a savage or a criminal.  
 _Fenedhis lasa._ He repelled the flash of anger that surged through him before it threatened to show on his face. He would have to keep his emotions in check, play the part carefully.  
The slightest act of resistance or insult and they would ask for his head.  
Knowing better than to raise his hands in surrender - coming from a mage such a gesture would likely be interpreted differently - he kept his body loose, hands at his chest for all to see, fingers lightly intertwined, slightly bowing his head.  
"Please, I mean no harm, I wish only to offer my aid."  
He did not yet want to mention the Breach directly. Not before his intentions where made clear.  
"Help? Hasn't your kind done enough?" one of the man spat at him.  
He wanted to retort but changed his mind as two soldiers stepped closer, swords still drawn.  
His opinion of human justice had been incredibly low to begin with, but had he still given them too much credit? The possibility that they would simply dismiss his tales as lies was considerable, but would they attempt to execute him on the spot without even given him the curtesy of explaining himself?  
"Surrender your weapon." the man to his right demanded, pointing his sword at Solas chest.  
Losing his staff would do little more to his magic than lessen his aim. Not that he would inform them of that. If it would ease their minds to take away his stick, they could have it.  
He kept his expression calm and collected as he surrendered his staff and his backpack to the Templars with nothing but a faint gentle smile. They weren't as kind, shackling his hands behind his back with far more force then necessary, handing his possessions to their comrades as the two positioned themselves behind him, blades dangerously close to his neck.  
"What is in the bag?" the Templar facing him barked in a husky voice laden with authority that made it clear he was in charge of the group.  
"Clothes, healing potions, books, …"  
Solas described the contents, keeping his voice calm as one of the recruits rummaged through it carelessly, spilling some of its fillings. The breach of his privacy irked him greatly and he had to remind himself with great force that he was at their mercy. Any form of resistance would cost him valuable time if not more. In their eyes, he was a prisoner, a suspect and in a way, he was guilty.  
"All contents appear to be what he claims." the soldier said finally, tossing his backpack and what few items remained inside to the pile of his spilled possessions.  
"That doesn't mean he is truthful." the commander noted.  
"It does not mean that I am deceitful either." Solas added and he felt the Templars behind him tense, weapons inching closer. He could almost feel the tip of their swords scraping at his neck.  
"He did not ask for your opinion, mage!" the man who had shackled him hissed from behind.  
The commander locked his pale eyes with Solas and for a moment they were fighting a silent battle, the Templar searching for any sign of self-satisfaction, of smugness that could hint at the mages possible darker intentions, Solas trying to keep his face calm, sincere, in hopes of convincing the man of his conation. If he had any chance to convince the man of reason, it was now. His words could be twisted and interpreted but expressions where not so easily denied.  
It was the commander broke the stare first, his face unreadable as he turned to address his men.  
"Soldiers, stay vigilant! Search the area, the mage might not have traveled alone."  
The men he had addressed seethed their weapons in order to show a sign of respect - placing their left hands on their hearts - before starting to clear out.  
 _They were wasting time.  
_ "And you", he addressed the man who had 'examined' his backpack.  
"Have the staff and his other belongings examined closely for any possible hexes or curses."  
"Yes, sir!" the man said and immediately started to hastily collect the contents. His attempt to refill the bag in order to carry all items was even more careless and pathetic than before, the pressure of his remaining colleagues scrutinizing him clearly taking affect.  
Solas still found it aggravating to have them handle his possessions, but he could not deny the small satisfaction he received from watching the man scramble like a wounded animal. _  
_"Makers breath, somebody help the fool."  
Two other Templars quickly joined the man, who grudgingly accepted the assistance, grabbing at items that were just that, items, nothing more than what they appeared to be. Well, with the exception of his journals perhaps.  
"The rest of you, clear out! Your duty is clear, you are to protect this camp and its people.  
Anyone raises their weapon against you and you cut them down! This is not the time for caution, it's the time for action! Walk with the Makers blessing and deliver his justice! And should you come upon whoever might have committed this sin … make them pay."  
Roaring cheers erupted as the commander turned to face Solas, beckoning the men behind him to follow.  
"Bermond and Lennan, you're with me. We're taking the prisoner to Sister Nightingale."  
They flanked Solas, weapons still drawn but no longer aimed at him, as they lead him deeper into the camp, closely following their commander.  
As they passed on the fresh air became more and more tainted with the smell of blood and burned meat.  
Tents spread about, people were scattered everywhere, screams, curses and cries flooding together in the background. Most of them where too engrossed in their tasks, tending to the wounded, preparing ointments and meals, offering comfort and prayers, to take note of him.  
But some did. They caught him in their gaze, mistrustful, hateful, and all blind in their rage.  
His stomach tightened.  
They did not know who he was. All they saw were the shackles, but they knew nothing of his crimes. Knew nothing of his guilt. But despite the lack of facts, of evidence, the lack of even his staff that would mark him as a mage, it was apparent that the people were eager to find him guilty.  
They spit on the ground and screamed insults, an elderly woman in chantry robes even going as far as shouting demands of his execution.  
If they were so eager to condemn him, who had not been near the conclave, who had come of his own volition, then what would become of the survivor?  
What would become of the mark?  
"Wait here." the commander ordered, slipping into an ornate tent. It seemed a bit more refined than the others, a small symbol of a sun gracing the fine cream colored samite at the entrance.  
The wind had died down and the ornate tent flap was not enough to cancel out the commanders' husky voice, which had now become more affable, the tone of a man addressing his superior.  
"Sister Nightingale, we have captured an apostate who approached the camp. We have confiscated his weapons and his belongings. "  
Solas had many complaints about that statement but he found the use of the word 'captured' especially vexing.  
"Are you sure he was alone?" The woman's voice was muffled by the tent, her accent Orlesian, but she spoke loud and clear enough for him to understand.  
"It appears so, but I have ordered a search of the area."  
"Good. We cannot be too careful. Where did your man constrain him?"  
The commander hesitated before replying  
"At the camp. He… he surrendered immediately."  
"Are you suggesting he sought us out?"  
"So he claims."  
"Why would an apostate come to this camp willingly?"  
Another pause.  
"He claims he wants to help."  
"Help? How?" she sounded surprised and mistrusting.  
"He did not say."  
 _Not for lack of trying._ Solas thought grimly, resisting a sneer.  
"Very well, send him in. Let's see if I will be able to make him talk."  
"As you wish, Lady Nightingale."

The tent had appeared rather refined from the outside, subtly projecting an air of importance.  
It was not as subtle on the inside. Royal sea silk laid out the tent, inlaid with shining chantry symbols that glistened as they were caught in the gentle light that crept through the tent flap.  
A small Andrastian shrine of solid gold stood in one corner, and in the center, sitting at an ebony desk laced with silverite, was Sister Nightingale.  
She did not seem like a sister, wearing light armor far more fitting for a bard. Her expression was kept blank but her voice could not completely mask her anger, the question more an accusation:  
"Where were you at the time of the explosion?"  
He told her the truth. After all there was no harm in telling her of the small village from which he had been able to watch while maintaining a safe distance. He was sure she would not suspect that he had picked the location for exactly that purpose.  
As expected, Lady Nightingale immediately ordered one of the Templars to have scouts investigate his claims.  
Solas was sure she would find witnesses able to place him at the scene. If he didn't attempt to hide, he was easily spotted. An elven apostate dressed in such garments didn't exactly blend in.  
Once the man had left, the interrogation continued, taking the inevitable shift of focus to his background. He would have to be very careful and mindful of the front he created. There was no saying in how long he would have to keep up the façade.  
"To which circle did you belong before the rebellion?"  
He had learned of some, but a circle could be verified, some records might remain.  
Besides, with the parochial views with which the circle encountered the Fade, he would never have been able to acquire such knowledge of it.  
"I have never been part of any circle."  
"Dalish then?"  
"Certainly not."  
She raised a brow. His response had been too quick, too dismissive. He had allowed for his emotions to show, his pride to reign. It could've offered a good explanation, provided he came up with an excuse for why he lacked the slave markings. After all, most would not be familiar with Dalish customs and likely attribute his Fade knowledge to 'strange magic practiced by elves', unaware of the fact that they were just as frightful of Spirits as the Chantry. The survivor might show suspicion, though he doubted even that. The clans had become so estranged that they didn't even know themselves anymore. It could have been a good cover, but the chance had passed, and he could not pretend he wasn't pleased. There was no saying how long he would have to wear a mask, and passing as a Dalish would have required him to assume a constant coat of ignorance, something he was not eager to cloth himself in.  
All these thoughts passed in an instant as he readied himself for the inevitable question.  
"So how did you learn to control your skills?"  
He considered for a short moment, choosing his words carefully.  
"I have studied magic peacefully on my own, particularly magic tied to the Fade. I have come here willingly, despite the obvious risks it poses to my freedom, my live, in order to share any knowledge that might be of use."  
He had always thought that the best lie was told with half-truths.  
"So you expect me to believe that you are a self-taught mage with expertise on the Fade, of all things?"  
"I do not consider myself to be self-taught, nor have I made any such claims. Although I suspect your opinion on the matter might differ, since I consider spirits to have been my tutors. And if I am not mistaken, your chantry does not deem them worthy of a real existence."  
He made no real effort to conceal his disdain. After all it seemed logical that one who had been taught to hone his skills by spirits would take affront to the misguided views of the Chantry.  
"The Chantry teaches us that spirits are the Makers first, flawed children. They do not possess a soul and some seek to bring only destruction and chaos to this world in their envy. But not all of them.  
I have known spirit healers who were aided by spirits of faith, saving countless lives, including mine multiple times. So I believe they can be helpful, but no, I do not consider them equal to people.  
Still, I am willing to hear what you have learned, provided you answer my questions thoroughly and honestly. If I believe you are truthful I will try to enable you your assistance. If not, you will be executed."  
 _Typical._  
He just nodded in understanding.  
She questioned him extensively about his background and history. Solas was evasive, spiking the lies with truths but giving, amongst other things, the name of the village where he supposedly grew up, noting that it was small, unlikely to appear on any map. He was certain she would not find the time to investigate, nor would she deem it important enough to do so. And when the scouts returned, having found multiple witnesses that placed him at the scene, he was finally able to steer the conversation in the important direction, describing the Fade and finally the effects of the Breach in enough detail to convince her that he could be a considerable asset.  
"So I request permission to study one of the smaller rifts that has formed in the Breaches wake.  
I would also like to examine the survivor of the Conclave. Whatever caused the explosion that lead to the Breach might also have placed that mark upon her."  
"So you think she caused the explosion?"  
"I did not say that. It is a possibility, not a necessity. It might be mere coincidence. She could have simply been at the wrong place, at the wrong time. Regardless, I believe that her mark is tied to the breach and thus I theorize that it might be able to close it."  
Leliana seemed lost in thoughts for a moment, staring past him.  
For a while he wondered if he had possibly defended the survivor too avidly, but she quickly drew his gaze back to him.  
"Very well, I will write to seeker Pentaghast immediately. I cannot make any promises but I will try to convince her. We cannot afford to turn our back on any help we might receive. Lennan, take Solas to the prison tent for now, make sure he is guarded but not treated poorly."  
"As you wish, Lady Nightingale."

The wait had been agonizingly slow, and by the look on the seekers face he had half expected her to cut him down on the spot. But after an abundance of threats he had finally received permission to examine the prisoner, obviously only under strict Templar supervision.

When he entered the cell, he just glanced at the elven woman lying on the simple bed, barely noting anything more than her dark skin and crimson hair.  
She was but a vessel, a mortal caught up in forces she could not possibly understand and though she had his sympathies he still thought her but a shell, broken, incomplete, and tranquil.  
His focus lay on the mark on her left hand, and the power that it contained.  
His power. Power he should never have let out of his sight.  
He could feel the glares of the Templars on him as he lowered himself to kneel down on the stone floor besides her, gently pulling her hand into his. It was so soft and cold, long refined fingers with short worn nails hung loosely, lifelessly, as he turned her hand gently to study her palm.  
The anchor flared at his touch, hissing and buzzing, bathing the room in green light and he heard the clink of metal as the Templars unsheathed their swords.  
 _Ignorant fools.  
_ He raised one hand to wave them back and the light expelled, the hissing faded.  
"It was nothing but a harmless reaction. This is to be expected, there is no cause for alarm."  
"Says you! How do we know you won't accidentally blow us all up?"  
He sighed.  
"Do you have deep knowledge of the Fade and the magic that is tied to it? Because I do and that is how I know I won't 'blow us all up'." He mocked the soldiers' speech.  
They were waring on his patience.  
"You might do it on purpose."  
 _Seriously?_  
"Now why would I do such a thing?"  
"I don't know. To prove some point? To weaken the Chantry? Why did she blow up the conclave?"  
Solas eyes darted to the man, glaring viciously. Their ignorance was infuriating.  
"You do not know what happened at the temple of sacred ashes any more then I."  
 _Less, actually._ He thought grimly.  
"She has not been found guilty of any crime yet, but this mark might be able to close the giant Breach in the sky that threatens to tear this world apart, so I suggest you let me work in peace and worry more about my results than hypothetical explosions that are unable to occur from this mark."  
"He has a point Cade." Lennan replied and some man hummed in agreement.  
"Besides, he does have the seekers permission."  
"But didn't you hear how she threatened him? It's clear that she doesn't trust him."  
"I nonetheless have her permission. And her lack of trust is the reason I am being watched by you.  
So I suggest we both perform our tasks." He snapped.  
It was quiet after that, safe for the buzzing of the anchor and the occasional disdainful grunts.  
He had theorized that the anchor was tied to her now and he would have no means of reclaiming it. It had been apparent from the first time he had laid his hands on the mark and every spell he tried cemented that belief further. He had expected as much.  
However it was frustrating to see that he was ostensibly unable to assert any form of control over it. It did not seem to respond to any of his spells and with the Templars surrounding him he was limited in his forms of magic.  
All he could hope for was keeping her alive and hope she would eventually wake up, applying healing wards and hexes.  
He let his magic flow through her, soothing, and his gaze drifted to her face.  
For the first time he was really looking at her.  
Her crimson hair was shaved short on one side, falling loosely in light waves over her right shoulder.  
Her smooth hazel colored skin was marred and marked by her vallaslin, green branches ranking from her nose upwards, stretching across her forehead in a misguided attempt to honor Mythal.  
She was beautiful, that was apparent, but it meant nothing to him.  
She had no true spirit, no true thoughts, she was not really alive.  
Nevertheless Solas wondered what she would make of all this, if she knew.  
Probably mock the Dread Wolf, try to punish him for robbing her people of everything.  
He could not blame her.  
No matter how misguided and foolish their legends where, they did get one thing right.  
He was to blame for the fall of Elvhenan.

 **I'll share a new chapter every week :)  
Any feedback is greatly appreciated :D  
**


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